Cupid's Arrows Aren't the Only Thing to Pierce a Heart
by DaSwampRat'sCherie
Summary: Of course Clint would be out on a mission when the entirety of SHIELD collapses as it's actually full of Hydra spies. And of course Loki joins him. And brings his stupid staff. Clint-centric, violence, language
1. Chapter 1

This story was requested (with a basic outline and everything - so awesome) by the lovely _Niom Lamboise_like, two months ago, but I'm the basically the slowest person on the entire planet, so it's taken forever. The story is five chapters, wholly completed, and I intend to post one chapter a day (except for tomorrow).

This totally disregards Thor: The Dark World as, tragedy that it is, I have yet to see it. I probably butcher more than just that plot though.

I tossed in a little bit of Matt Fraction's Hawkeye, but nothing major enough that will confuse you if you haven't read them.

**Disclaimer: Aw, Marvel, no**

* * *

He ached.

Like a lot.

It wasn't like it was any wonder with how fantabulous his week had been, but just because it was predictable didn't mean it sucked less ass.

He and Nat had walked closely from the wreckage to shawarma - that weird but surprisingly tasty crap Stark had insisted upon. He hoped it looked like just that - they were walking closely - and not like they [he] were leaning on each other [her] to remain upright.

But they made it, and here they were silently munching on some foreign shit while contemplating the world and its prevented demise.

Of course he had to break the silence with a stupid-ass comment like,

"Coulson's gonna' have my ass when he finds out we didn't invite him to shawarma. Remember - ?"

He cut himself off at the utter stillness that blanketed the table and suddenly he couldn't hear over the pounding in his ears and he couldn't breathe with the tight, sick feeling gripping his chest.

No one would meet his eyes; even Stark was quiet and reluctant to so much as flicker his gaze in Clint's direction.

One look from Nat was all it took.

"Fuck," he exhaled, swiping a hand down his face.

And that was all that was said, though the silence went from slightly reflective to heavy and constricting.

. . .

Finding out the first person you had learned to trust wholeheartedly (that hadn't betrayed said trust) had not only died, but had died on an attack _you fucking led_ kinda damaged something inside a person.

Not like he wasn't already screwed to hell, but still.

Returning to SHIELD had been rough as it was. About eighty percent were seasoned enough to know it was out of his hands (even if he wasn't one of them). Quite a chunk had been under some form of mind-influence at one point or another, so a vast majority didn't blame him. They told him that. In fact, he'd been told that so many times (by Nat, the psych department, hell, even _Fury_) that he was considering getting it on a T-shirt.

But there were those who _did_ blame him, who _did_ toss crude insults and even the occasional crude punch. And when he had those two opposing sides constantly berating him, he lost track of just who to believe (usually it was the latter - the ones who called him _traitor _and _murderer_).

He'd gotten better over time. He'd certainly never _accepted _it or _come to terms_ with it or whatever psychological shit he was supposed to have reached. But soon the nightmares lessened and the ache in his chest shifted to a weight and then to a dull presence, and he was able to ignore the whole thing.

But there were days - a fucking lot of them, actually - where that part of him lost to the other voices in his head that screamed _murderer, traitor,_ at him until he couldn't breathe, and the dull presence transformed into a painful throb.

Those were what he affectionately called "bad days".

. . .

He had a lot of bad days.

Like, today, for instance.

Fury had had his back through the whole thing - he and Hill both. It'd been almost two years since the Avengers short-lived union in Manhattan (he still got the occasional annoying text from Stark or Cap, both of whom he ignored and got yelled at by Nat for doing so), which meant, at the very least, the whole Loki mind-fuck thing was basically ancient history.

But all it would take was one mini soulful reflection that would inevitably lead to Coulson which would lead to his death and, oh, yeah, Loki. It just so happened that his "mini soulful reflection" came in the form of a nightmare. Just to keep things interesting, he mused.

He'd been slumped on his couch in his apartment in Bed-Stuy, trying to get back to sleep without actually _sleeping_, all the while ignoring the tracksuit mafia dudes hovering in the room across the street when the call came.

It was Fury, so his bleary-eyed pre-caffeinated, barked-out, "_What?_" probably wasn't the greatest greeting.

He wasn't the greatest.

Clint could practically feel Fury's one-eyed glower through the phone once he realized who it was, but luckily the cyclops-badass was used to grumpy morning people.

"I have a mission for you."

He heaved out a sigh. He was supposed to be on goddamn _vacation_, thank you very much.

"Don't sound too thrilled or anything," Fury huffed in his natural sarcastic way.

"What is it?"

"Nothing too spectacular," which meant something stupidly complicated that would inevitably turn into a clusterfuck, which made Clint the perfect candidate. "Found some Asgardian tech - " that didn't freak him out; nope, not one bit " - and we need someone to guard it and make sure the whole mission doesn't go to hell."

Again, he blew out a sigh.

"Where?"

"Canada."

"Canada." Clint repeated flatly.

"Canada," Fury confirmed, sounding much too pleased.

Goddamn fucking Canada. It was a nice place, don't get him wrong, but as cold as New York was, Canada made it seem like a tropical paradise.

"When can you get to the 'carrier?"

That had become Fury's home basically, even though SHIELD HQ was elsewhere.

Clint glanced at the clock. Hell, it was only 7:30 now. He shouldn't even be awake for another five hours.

"Give me an hour," Pizza-dog made his presence known with some heavy panting and tail-wagging, so Clint ammended, "Better make it two. Gotta take care of some stuff first."

"I'll give you an hour and a half," came the director's curt reply, followed by the monotone beep of a disconnected call.

. . .

Two hours later - because fuck Fury - Clint was boarding the 'carrier and stalking through the halls to the big cheese's office.

It was nice that everyone greeted him like a friend, but his head was in a bad space and it did nothing to improve his morbid outlook, which only got darker when Kawolski (they'd hated each other since day one) made some snide comment. For like the gazillionth time and yet it still cut just as deep.

Because the bastard was right and it _was_ Clint's fault and - . He sighed, rubbing his forehead in a nervous trait he hadn't done since he was a kid. (Until Loki. Now he did it all the time and he knew it. Couldn't find it within him to care).

When he finally barged into Fury's office, the man's eye twitched almost humorously then grunted,

"About time you got your ass here."

Normally he would have snarked back with something about how much the dude loved his ass, but Clint just wasn't feeling it. He offered a half-hearted shrug and now the twitching eye narrowed.

The man moved on, at least, and slid a thin file across his desk toward Clint, who accordingly plopped himself down in the chair before it.

He opened it up to find several different shots of what looked to be a sword. Flicking through the pages, he noticed something odd,

"What? No magical powers?"

"Not that any of the scientists have found. That's why we're moving it to the Fridge and letting them work on it there," Fury explained. "It should be a pretty straightforward mission, but I would sure as hell feel better having someone I trust there to watch its back."

Yeah, well, trust is often misplaced.

An autobiography by Clint Barton.

But, hey, it was just guarding a goddamn sword. How hard could _that _be?

. . .

In Fury's infinite wisdom, the mission would take place over the course of three days, and there wasn't to be any contact with SHIELD (barring dire emergencies) during that time. The first one, Clint and his fellow SHIELD buddies who would be overseeing the transaction were to familiarize themselves with the layout of the area.

According to the charts, pictures, maps, and fucking _videos_, it would take place in Canada - _cold_ Canada - in the middle of its foresty mountains, in the one spot there was a convenient clearing of sorts. There was a nearby slope that would be perfect for Clint to perch on; it would give him a solid vantage point of the entire landscape, except for a few parts on ground level he wouldn't be able to see due to the angle of the trees and shit (which his fellow agents, Reynolds and Jackman would be in charge of watching).

The clearing was surrounded by his perch on one side, the part that was basically just rocks and ice and snow, because the steep trek up was on the side and only properly accessible from where the back of the jet would be. (He mused maybe he'd have to get Nat to come with him and go sleigh riding.) On the other three sides of the clearing was dense forestry; it sucked in that it wouldn't be too terribly hard for enemies to come spilling out, but on the other hand it was prime terrain for them to flee into should the need arise.

Not that it should, because the mission was straightforward and only, like, three other people knew about it.

It would be easy.

The second day was extra padding to make sure intel was good, no leaks were to be had, and, probably the _real_ reason for it, was to ensure the scientists had an extra day to tinker with the sword.

The third and final day would be the exchange itself, which would be a relief.

Clint really hated Canada.

. . .

Reynolds and Jackman weren't so bad. Reynolds was a bit obnoxious, and didn't seem to know which jokes were appropriate and which were not (such as calling a picture of Jackman's twenty year old daughter "sexy as hell"). Jackman was older, quiet, and actually pretty wise and shit.

He'd seen a lot in his days at SHIELD, the marine corps beforehand, and had a sort of presence to him many strove to achieve. Clint liked him a lot, and would definitely miss him when he retired in three months.

They debated whether to fly out to the position and get a view of it firsthand, but dubbed that overkill so ordered pizza and beer and chatted aimlessly over the TV they'd flicked on.

Clint just tried to ignore the way his stomach flip-flopped about having to go to sleep, the way he knew he would wake up the trained soldiers if he so much as breathed too loudly in the throes of his inevitable nightmare.

. . .

Somehow, he made it through the night. He had nightmares - two, both of which _sucked ass_ and left him shaky and unsure afterwards - but either the other two men didn't notice or were tactful enough not to mention (he was betting on the latter).

But today the scientists - Grammar and Jansen (_total dweebs_) - would be joining their little party, and he was already grumpy as it was. Nosy geeks weren't going to help anything, which is why he volunteered to chill in the lobby then the cafe across the street to monitor the area in the event of something going down.

It was unnecessary, thank God, and he returned to the large suite bearing Chinese take out and praying that he could survive the night peacefully.

Grammar complained that the pizza wasn't healthy, and Jansen - for once in his fucking life - actually agreed with the man. All Jackman had to do was glare and then dart his gaze pointedly to the rifle lying on the bed before the two scientists shut their mouths with audible snaps and began to dig into the food.

Clint ate a few bites of the noodles, then proclaimed he'd go to bed early, grabbing a blanket and curling up in the other room on the floor.

Shot a rueful smile at Reynolds who looked horrified at being left alone with Mr-Stick-Up-His-Ass and the Wonder Twins (his words, not Clint's.)

. . .

Clint huffed out a breath - a breath that, because it was fucking 17 below, misted out before him and all but crystallized right then and there.

This mission sucked. It was too cold.

He was currently perched on his slope - recognizing that the position was even better than the pictures (and fucking _videos_) had shown it to be.

The dweebs - _scientists _\- were arguing about something stupid and totally beyond him involving polarities and angles and god-knew-what.

Reynolds' incessant chatter was obvious even from the distance with the way he was flailing about with his hands, and the grim but almost-amused line that was Jackman's mouth.

And, because he didn't have anyone right there to distract him (idiotic doctors and flamboyant agents only worked for so long), his thoughts kept shooting back to Loki and his goddamn mind control.

He'd gotten over it.

Years ago.

And yet it still hurt like he was plowing his way through the secret base and driving the jeep into Maria as fast as he could, leaving dead agents in his wake. Like he was picking through the assembly and relaying data to Loki about whose eye he should go for. Like he was boarding the Helicarrier and picking off agents like maggots, in a siege that was always planned to fail anyway.

And, in a lot of ways, maybe that was why it was so hard.

The mission had always been for Loki to get captured; he'd _planned_ to be on the 'carrier which meant every life lost was even more of an utter waste.

Fuck, he missed Phil.

He was so used to having him in his ear, exhaling those little puffs of breath every time Clint made some smart-ass comment that meant he was amused but not going to show it.

"Barton. Status."

The fact that the voice over the comms made him jump just proved that his pity-party had to come to an end.

"Still all clear," he replied cleanly, his eyes once again flitting around for something - anything - out of the ordinary.

As if on cue, the jet that would be taking the goods to the Fridge could be heard zooming along in the distance, and he gave the order to get ready to make the exchange.

Why the scientists couldn't just take it to Fridge themselves was beyond him, but he mused that it was more secret-agency-like to have a million exchanges rather than one straight shot.

"We're ready down here. Just keep an eye out."

Clint sighed. Like he really needed to be told that.

Like he said, the clearing was huge - it had to be to fit two mini-jets and still have room - but when the second one settled itself, it looked suddenly tiny.

Which was maybe a metaphor, or maybe a sign, or maybe a _whatever _that should have clued him in.

This op was going to Hell in a handbasket.

. . .

His position was angled so he didn't have a single blindspot (barring the trees, obviously), except for the ramp of the jet because he'd have to be level with it to see.

As it were, that was really the only view that mattered.

He'd had a pit in his stomach the whole time, but he assumed it was all his fucked-up angsty feelings, not foreshadowing of imminent failure (besides, ever the pessimist, he pretty much _always_ had that feeling).

But when Reynolds and Jackman started firing off rounds at the second jet - and the bullets fucking stopped _midair_, he kinda got the hint that they were all screwed.

Grammar and Jansen were already starting to shove the crate with the artifact back to their jet, desperately trying to keep it out of enemy hands, but as he scrambled to get a better shot, he watched each one take fatal hits from the bullets that had been hovering in the air for a few beats there.

Reynolds and Jackman were next.

Fuck.

Clint slid the rest of the way down the incline, ignoring how his jacket rode up and snow and ice made their way into his clothes and instead already nocking an arrow for the instant he had a visual.

And shit did he get a visual.

Loki.

Goddamn fucking _Loki_ was standing there in all his glory, a smug smirk plastered to his face as he strode to the crate.

Clint launched an arrow, followed by an explosive one. Loki dodged the first and lobbed the other to the side.

Except he didn't really dodge the first one because he'd used his _boomerang_ arrow and it swung around and impaled him in the back (suck it, Kate Bishop).

The look of amusement the douche had had on his face when he first locked eyes on Clint vanished in a wave of irritation, and he reached behind him to pluck the arrow from his back.

"New tricks, I see, Little Hawk," He called, smarmy grin back on his face and a glint in his eye that Clint could see even from the distance.

_Yeah, I haven't really missed that voice_, was the last sentient thought Clint had, for, suddenly, Loki was hovering above his crouched position.

Lowering that goddamn staff to his heart.


	2. Chapter 2

I know that I abuse commas and dashes (hyphens? there is a difference), but other than that feel free to point out errors. Feedback such as favorites, follows, and reviews are all loved.

**Disclaimer: Aw, Marvel, no**

* * *

The tip touched his chest, and he gasped a shuddering breath at the ice that seeped into his heart and traveled through his veins. The worst part was it took it's time, and the chill was painstakingly slow at spreading to his extremities.

Fuck. Not again.

This time, at least, he was prepared for it. This time, at least, he could fight the pull that urged him to rise to his feet.

Not very well, but at least a little.

His feet shifted back on his heel to stand up, but he _fought back_ and managed to twitch a finger and remain crouched for an extra beat.

And the spark of shock on Loki's face at the resistance gave him the satisfaction to try harder.

It was like when your arm fell asleep though. You _will_ that annoying tingling to go away, and you shake and flex your fingers in hopes to increase blood-flow and make it go back to normal; but, really, if your arm still wants to be asleep then there's nothing you can do.

He shook, he flexed, he barreled into goddamn thing, but nope.

His body's movements were stuttering and jerky, but he inevitably stood to his feet against his will, straightened his spine, and even offered Loki a goddamn _smile_.

He swallowed convulsively - or he would have but that hesitating second of almost-control was now mind-numbingly _gone_ and he couldn't do even that.

Clint screamed in his mind - pretty fruitless - and tried to ignore the current state of his mind. How it went from his own filled with random thoughts and memories to a blank canvas for Loki to manipulate however the hell he pleased.

How it went from a whirl of colors - twisting, turning in a comforting flow reminiscent of a kaleidoscope - to a deathly black that suffocated him.

It didn't take long to stay black.

His breaths came out in heavy pants, and it felt chilly enough that they should have misted out in front of him. And maybe they did; it was so dark he couldn't see even his hands, much less foggy air. The only amount of light was the pale luminescent blue edges that seemed both _right there_ and a million miles away.

A low murmuring filled the space, echoing with eerie whispers that couldn't be heard distinctly enough to understand.

He hadn't been able to last time either.

The voices were seeping into his ability to focus - not exactly doctor-recommended when trying to overcome the psychopath controlling your head. Part of him thought it was his memories trying to burst forth and display that mesh of color and he felt a swell of hope. But another thought it was Loki and his spell and the heady commands to obey, which is why he clutched his ears and clenched his eyes and tried everything to block them out.

Didn't work because he could hear them just as clearly anyway.

A few more minutes of this and he gave up trying, jerked his gaze desperately around hoping he'd find something to help. Only took a few moments because he knew he wouldn't see anything.

Now that he'd struggled, and now that he'd screamed, and now that he'd hidden, there was only one thing left to do (just like last time).

He ran.

He didn't get anywhere - it was just a void in his head, but he ran.

A part of Clint wished there was some kind of wall. Even if it was concrete and impossible for him to get passed, he would still have something to hit, something to try to take down.

Being a void meant the only thing he could do was run endlessly and scream himself hoarse.

. . .

Loki turned away from him, and Clint would have given everything for the invasion to be maintained through eye contact.

It wasn't, of course, so he felt his feet begin plowing through the snow and he felt his hands settling his bow and quiver onto his back where it belonged. His back felt raw from the chunks of ice and snow scraping against it when he slid down the hill, and his whole body was getting sore already from his muscles being wound so tightly and held at awkward angles.

He was still freezing his ass - not so much because of the Canadian chill, but because whatever the hell it was exactly that Loki pumped into him was icy and _stayed _icy.

His eyes flickered around the scene of their own accord - not lingering on the bodies of his former teammates like they once would have, but still catching the crimson staining the snow because even the blind would be able to see it.

But even as his mental eyes could only see that scarlet, could only see the still-warm corpses, his actual gaze avoided it carefully.

Until Loki abruptly halted his tracks and turned back around. He simply raised an eyebrow in his direction, and, before Clint even registered it was happening, his arms nocked an arrow, drew back the string, and hurtled an arrow at the figure slowly dragging itself ahead.

Reynolds slumped into the snow - his face half buried - before he could reach the radio skittered away, Clint's perfectly aimed arrow sticking out between his now lifeless eyes.

He would have thrown up if he could.

Mind-him did.

The vomit erupted from his throat and he braced himself against his knees as he heaved, but,and even though he couldn't see it, he could actually _smell _it. It smelled putrid.

It smelled dead.

"Well done, Little Hawk," Loki cooed, gliding over and placing a terrifying gentle hand against his cheek. "I knew you would be useful to keep around."

Clint threw up again.

. . .

Loki and his band of misfits - Clint didn't know whether or not it was a comfort that the other three men didn't have unnaturally blue eyes - took the crate with the Asgardian sword thing, then boarded the jet they came on. He followed right behind, dragging his mental feet the whole way. His physical feet were just about giddy to play follow the leader, so fuck his life.

Loki hovered behind, shooting him a sideways glance that Clint interpreted as double-checking that he was still a puppet. Which, okay, it sucked that he _was still a puppet_, but it was comforting to know he had the bastard doubting himself.

"You know, little Hawk - " _here we go_ " - I've thought about our time together during all of my imprisonment. How - How _willing_ you were to do my bidding once I opened your eyes."

Which. Fuck. No, no, he wasn't willing, he was -

But it was _his_ fault, wasn't it? Who's to say he didn't want to obey all along? Somewhere deep down? Or...Or maybe near the surface?

_Get a grip, Barton. This is Loki: asshole extraordinaire. He messes with people_.

"I knew as soon as my staff touched you that you had heart - " _like those words never haunted him_ " - that you would be a most useful subject. That you would follow blindly once I got a hold of you, that you would be my most loyal."

No. No, he wasn't loyal. He wasn't. Stop saying that.

Mind-him put his hands over his ears, which didn't work because Loki's voice was in his head too. And he also knew it was a childish move but he couldn't bear to have his deepest fears placed out in front of him like that - which was even stupider because he was a _trained agent_ and should know by now his weaknesses would be laid bare if the enemy got the chance, but this was different.

Because this? This was true, and this was all in his head which made it so much worse somehow, because now he didn't know what was real and what wasn't and _shit_.

"Come now, Hawk. You must know I wouldn't choose my right-hand-man lightly. I would never force someone to do something they didn't _really _want to do."

And just like that, the asshole walked away and Clint was left panting in his head, eyes darting around the void trying to make some sense of this ass-backwards reality because none of Loki's words were true.

...Right?

. . .

Clint found himself piloting the jet.

Piloting was something he'd been doing for over a decade, and somewhere along the line it became as familiar to him as archery.

And so he felt better having the controls at arm's reach, and seeing the clouds mist by. But he also felt so wrong because, this? This was wrong. This was some macabre version of what he loved. This was taking a comfort and twisting it into something that made him sick.

Last time some other dude had done the piloting and that - unlike his archery for several months afterwards - remained intact. Just another thing Loki had to wrench away from him, and he screamed just that into the void, starting his tireless running again even though he knew it would do no good.

. . .

Natasha had been trying to call Clint for fucking _days_ now. And the bastard just wouldn't pick up. Didn't he know SHIELD was falling apart?

Correction: _had_ fallen apart.

When Stark had found out the shit that went down with Hydra and Bucky and all hell breaking loose, he had immediately began taking in refugees and insisted all Earth-bound Avengers to come to the Tower for the time being. Apparently he was feeling guilty as hell for not spotting all the evidence when he had hacked SHIELD's database during the siege on Manhattan that started the whole thing.

Rogers - she supposed she could call him Steve now - was sulking around. He earned it with everything that happened, though; had she been in his position she would be doing the same thing. Well, half-truth. She went through that with Clint, but not to quite the degree because she got Clint fixed.

(Even if he was still broken.)

Banner was brooding around somewhere too, and Thor had actually come back from Asgard to offer his assistance. If interplanetary gods could answer the phone, then Clint damn well could too, goddammit!

She was pissed at him, (but really just because she was worried about him).

Steve wandered in just as she was sending the thousandth text to one of Clint's hundred phones.

"Everything all right?"

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye as he settled himself into the seat across from her at the table. He looked weary, older somehow - and not in the way she teased him about for being like ninety. His face scrunched up and then he sighed,

"He's still not answering is he?"

It was her turn to sigh, and she added a shake of her head. "I'm sure he's fine." (Not even the Black Widow could make that sound sincere.) "It's been hectic and he just hasn't found the time to respond." (Even though that was completely unlike him, and if anything _he_ would be the one frantically texting _her _under normal circumstances.)

Steve looked dubious, but didn't react other than pursing his lips. "Any idea where he was last on assignment?"

"He does a lot of solo missions these days, and SHIELD is on a need-to-know basis," she explained by way of answer that, no, she didn't know where he was and it was killing her.

He looked ready to respond, but was interrupted by frenzied footsteps and shouts coming their way. Both immediately jumped to their feet, adopting defensive stances in preparation of danger.

Turned out it was just Tony, but his eyes were wide and his hair mussed from sprinting around like an idiot.

She relaxed and rolled her eyes. "What now, Stark?"

"Jarvis, bring up channel 12 on the TV," he puffed out, and the AI flickered the screen to life.

"_Coming live from Toronto, it appears the notorious Loki has returned. Gaining infamy from his attack on Manhattan that revealed to the world once and for all that aliens do exist, the norse-god inspiration was believed to be back on Asgard until an hour ago when he and his group of men began to attack the city, proclaiming they were wishing to bring Thor - another alien - and all of Earth's other mightiest heroes - "_

No one could pay attention to the rest of the news anchor's words because suddenly the cameras zoomed into the mayhem behind them. There was Loki, just as the news suggested, in all his horned glory.

But it was who was behind him launching arrows at various civilians that had Nat's stomach drop.

_Oh, Clint_.


	3. Chapter 3

I think I finally got all of the gaping plot holes out, but I admit I didn't write this story for any epic plotty awesomeness, so feel free to pester me if something doesn't fit.

**Disclaimer: Aw, Marvel, no**

* * *

The flight didn't last all that long, an hour at most, before he found himself steering the tiny jet into a long stretch of snow similar to the one for the exchange. The landing was smooth - despite his best efforts to jerk the joystick and crash the goddamn plane, killing all the occupants in a fiery inferno.

The three lackeys instantly set to work on opening the ramp and hauling the crate out. Loki just turned around and shot him a sickeningly self-satisfied smirk, waving his hand lightly in a clear summoning that Clint hated himself for following.

He was sore and cold and tired and hungry, but really all he wanted to do was jam an arrow in each of Loki's ears and twist.

Loki chuckled to himself just then and retorted, "I am a god you know. If I survived a beating from your Hulk, then I highly doubt your primitive arrows would result in my death."

Clint kinda forgot Loki was not only controlling his head, but _in_ his head, but at the subtle reminder he shot a loud "let's test that theory" and then a "fuck you" for good measure.

Loki just chuckled again.

. . .

They trudged through the snow - the knee-deep snow that really wasn't helping his chill - for a solid ten minutes, before happening upon a cave (which, _seriously?_) and entering. They didn't stop in the entrance though, just kept waltzing through the twisty tunnels - a path Clint was carefully memorizing for when (if) he ever got out of this hell.

Finally though, they stopped in a spacious cavern and set the crate down. Loki strode around the perimeter, muttering under his breath and shooting the occasional wispy burst of color from his staff.

Enchantments of some kind, Clint figured, realizing that perhaps Loki's preoccupation with the magic would provide a small opportunity for him.

Still frustrated there was nothing physical in his head to fight, he immediately went about fighting the hold as subtly but effectively as he could. Which involved huddling in on himself, tensing all his muscles as though bracing himself for impact (which he basically was), and just focusing everything he could on moving of his own volition.

He hated it because he was a grunt; he was anything but intelligent. He was suited to pummel the shit out of stuff and lob explosives, not this "mind over matter crap" and he again wished for some kind of physical force even as he concentrated to gain control of his body to the point that it _hurt_ .

And it _worked_ because his fingers actually _twitched_.

No one noticed - not even Loki, so fuck yeah - and Clint debated his options. Should he try to launch an arrow? Opt for a tackle? Take out the henchmen? Loki? Himself?

If he targeted himself and got a concussion, it might break the spell. The only problem was, unlike last time, Loki was _right there_ and could probably easily put him back under, making the whole thing pretty pointless.

He was pretty much fucked no matter what he did, but he had to do something. And he had to do it quick before Loki lost focus or, just as disastrously, read his current train of thought and stopped him before anything could happen because, really, it was nothing short of a miracle that his little ploy hadn't already been discovered.

So he went for an explosive arrow at Loki's staff (maybe if it was destroyed he'd be free ), then, if he had time, another one in the vicinity of the three lackeys - hopefully damage them all to at least some degree.

He wasn't actually expecting to have the control he'd need to reach towards an arrow, much less aim and fire one, but Loki was apparently distracted enough and he strong enough that he _did_ manage to fire one off at the goddamn staff - didn't break - and, more wondrous still, another one towards the goons.

Loki was most definitely caught off guard, barely managed to flinch out of the way, although the blast radius still got both him and the staff. The three other men were even less prepared, two of them crying out in what Clint couldn't differentiate between shock or pain.

The sound was deafening - good thing he was already deaf - in the tiny space, and even he felt a bit singed from both explosions.

He didn't have any time to feel pleased with himself, for, even faster than his little siege had happened, all of the sudden he was unwillingly running full-fledged towards the rocky wall and slammed into it with such a force his vision blurred, and his ears rang. It reminded him of the many (many, many) times he'd fallen off something high; the way everything crunched together as the ground came rushing towards him, except this time it was him rushing towards the wall.

Apparently his plan to break the bond by obliterating the staff didn't work out too swell.

His breath hitched every time he tried to inhale, sending a slew of even more uncomfortable aches throughout his body, and an annoying drizzle of blood trickled into his eye, making his already fuzzy sight even worse.

But not bad enough that he couldn't see the way Loki (staff wholly intact) looked pissed as hell as he strode over. Didn't even spare the other men a glance, one of whom wasn't moving, one of whom was writhing, and the last of whom was panting and trying to steady the one rolling about.

Still, nothing was said as Loki stopped only when he was towering over Clint and his hot breath was fuming onto his cheek. Silence as he used both hands - which was redundant because the guy only needed one - and began choking Clint, making breathing even more impossible of a feat.

"I should just kill you now," the Asgardian snarled, exhales still uncomfortably hot against Clint who was fearing he would be losing consciousness any second now - which maybe was a good thing? But then, even more terrifying than the raw fury, Loki relaxed his stance and stretched his lips into an amused grin.

"Then again, I feel that keeping you alive to do my bidding would be a far better punishment."

And with that, he removed his grip and stalked away, leaving Clint to heave in gasps and straighten in a way that stretched and pressured and _hurt _his ribs the most.

. . .

One of the lackeys was actually killed. Well, he was still breathing currently, but his wounds would be fatal without the proper medical attention Loki didn't care to bother with. A hunk of rock had embedded into his side, and the other guy apparently didn't know enough to leave it in to prevent the blood from flowing as well. The guy who had been convulsing had some pretty bad burns, and had probably sprained his wrist, but he would be fine in the long run. The last guy was mostly okay, if not a little worse for the wear.

His plan maybe wasn't as big of a failure as he had thought it would be, then.

Loki was still fucking _pissed_ at him, and he knew that he had definitely used his one and only shot at escaping on his own.

Right now - petty though it was (though it was so much better to focus on the little things than the horror of the whole situation) - the worst part for Clint was that he couldn't wipe the blood out of his eye. The gash on his forehead just kept leaking undaunted into his eye, and so now he was half-blind on top of everything.

He also was pretty sure he cracked his ribs in some fashion or another, but he couldn't touch them to check, couldn't double over to breathe, and couldn't fight the rising bile but also couldn't throw it up either (which only made him more sick).

Loki went back around casting more spells, but there was no way that would provide another opportunity, so Clint just focused on trying to remember what was said, and ignore they way everything hurt.

. . .

Clint was just about ready to fall asleep - body willing or not - because Loki had him stand there rigid for what he guessed was the better part of four (maybe twelve) hours (he was pretty sure it was so far into night it was basically morning now), and mind-him spent the time running aimlessly in the void, desperately praying that he'd stumble upon something - _anything, _even some horrifying past memory that were in ample supply.

That didn't happen.

And he knew all the while it was pretty stupid to waste all of his energy, he'd never been one to sit back and bide his time (well, as a sniper he did that more often than not, but that inactivity was so much different).

His feet were finally starting to put one in front of the other (though it was three steps before that fact properly registered), and he closed the distance between he and Loki.

Was pretty shocked when he suddenly pulled out his tactical dagger and slit a long strip along his forearm, began pinching the skin so the blood would pool even faster.

Loki had his usual smirk on, apparently still pissed but pleased enough that he his control back that he was going to gloat, and suddenly Mostly-Okay Guy thrust the sword under him, and his blood cascaded down onto it.

Which, okay, what the actual fuck.

. . .

Last he had known, the sword was still safely hidden away in the crate, and Mostly-Okay Guy and Not-so-Okay Guy were taking care of Mostly-Dead Guy (so he his brain was too addled to come up with better nicknames like usual). It didn't help he was forced to look at the same spot on the wall, and his peripheral vision was screwed to hell between the lack of proper oxygen (his stance let him get enough to not pass out, but not a hair more) and the crusted blood glooped on his lashes and dragging his lid down (because the gash did at last coagulate and stop dripping into his eye, not that his current issue was loads better or anything).

So Clint was pretty caught off guard by the abrupt turn of events, grew even more concerned when Loki started to chant something else and sprinkle some weird-ass herb thing on the sword, before lowering his staff to it. Which resulted in a small puff of blue mist to emanate from the spot of contact, before the whole goddamn sword glowed a bluish-green tint. It took another thirty or so seconds to die down.

And, okay.

This looks bad.

. . .

Clint was actually allowed to look up, which he figured was totally on purpose once he realized Loki was grinning at him (again, it was getting really old there god-of-mischief).

"Thanks to you, Laeveteinn has returned to his rightful side by me," and just as those words left his mouth, the thing flew out of Mostly-Okay Guy's hands and straight into Loki's. "Whatever Midgardian testings you and your insolent kind did to it damaged it in ways I feared were irreversible. A simple spell performed, and now its back to its full glory."

He paused, probably for dramatic affect and Clint struggled for enough control to glare. That didn't happen.

Loki leaned in, whispered in his ear, "The most important ingredient was the blood of a faithful servant."

His stomach somersaulted and he felt dizzy, and he was pretty sure he just might puke - mind control or no.

. . .

Once Mostly-Dead Guy became Actually-Dead Guy, they deserted the depths of the cavern and made their way back to the jet. It was pretty clear that Mostly-Okay Guy and Not-so-Okay Guy were beginning to question their leader and his lack of caring for their wellbeing, but they still obeyed his orders and climbed into the jet.

Clint was back to piloting again - he knew if he got out of this, it would be months before he could properly do _that_ again - and this time Loki sat next to him in the co-pilot's seat.

Murmured softly to him both in his head - was louder than the other whispers - and out loud.

Talked of how he was the perfect soldier. His blunt little instrument.

How, really, he had been _someone's_ blunt little instrument his whole life, starting with the ever-instrumental function of punching bag for dear old Daddy. Graduated to the circus eventually where he became used for an act, for an outlet of both violent and - and _other_ tensions that he refused to even acknowledge in his thoughts.

Made it to gun-for-hire, and how even when he joined SHIELD, he was still only a weapon to be used at whim so the big-wigs could keep their hands clean.

It wasn't true. Clint knew it wasn't.

Except for the fact that really it was.

. . .

He piloted the craft into the well-populated (_shit_) city of Toronto, not using an airstrip like normal people, but the busy intersection that only an asshole megalomaniac would think to use - one that wasn't particularly big enough and caused at least a dozen buildings to be smashed in. Apparently Loki was pretty confident they wouldn't need a quick escape, considering the wings - while currently free and spanning into the two streets nearby - would have to sift through several more buildings which would only slow them down and make it nigh impossible to take off.

He wasn't sure if he was comforted by that or not (he really wasn't), but wasn't left with all that much time to ponder the situation because suddenly his body was springing into action, stalking down the now open gangplank and already aiming arrows at the few brave (_stupid_) civvies who tried to fight back.

Mind-him enjoyed another round of vomiting.

(He was way more susceptible up there, and, part of him was comforted because at least he was still "him" in his head, was still semi-human and able to be sickened by his actions the way he wanted to be.)

Mostly-Okay Guy and Not-so-Okay Guy weren't keeping up too well, but they were taking down a few here and there.

Loki wasn't killing anyone.

He was just waltzing around, touching his staff to various people's hearts and converting them into his own personal army.

Well, he was converting the ones Clint wasn't killing anyway.

And Clint was killing a lot. He even - fuck, he even killed a _kid_ and that was when he started up the senseless screaming, the desperate running for some semblance of control because last time was bad but this was _worse_ because at least SHIELD was semi-prepared for attacks.

. . .

Natasha was speeding through the air, pushing the throttle down and yelling at Stark that he should have spent more time upgrading his fucking jets because they should _be there_ already, not another thirty minutes out.

She knew she wasn't exactly keeping her cool the way the Black Widow was supposed to, but her entire way of life for the past seven years had just collapsed around her, and the one person who had kept her alive for the past seven years was now being mind-fucked _again_, so she figured she was entitled to it.

Steve seemed the most understanding - he had kind of just experienced the same thing in a lot of ways - but none of them made any comment to her rants.

Stark remarked that he was already calibrating how to make the engines faster, but she didn't pay him much mind.

Dammit, Clint.

He really needed to stop doing this sort of thing to her.

. . .

It actually only took twenty-three minutes to get there, which was still fucking unacceptable but was at least a little better. Their jet was much tinier than the one Clint had been on, and they landed atop some flat-roofed building.

Stark flew Steve down and Thor grabbed her, Banner already Hulking out and taking a flying leap off the edge for himself.

Thor dropped her surprisingly gently before wielding his hammer through the blue-eyed people in between him and his brother.

The military and police were already there, using what looked to be mostly tranq darts towards the mass of people, but Loki had probably been here anywhere up to an hour and half the blocks in downtown were already either destroyed or turned into his hoardes of zombie-marionettes and there wasn't much of a dent they could even make.

It was unsettling easy for her to ignore the screams, ignore the blood and carnage and debris that spanned for probably honest-to-god miles if she were being realistic. Because she didn't give a flying fuck about Loki, or the military, or even the frightened civilians who were still scrambling to escape, scrambling to talk their loved ones back into being themselves again only to be struck down ruthlessly by the marionettes; the only thing she cared about was Clint.

And it took her thirty seconds too long to locate him in the chaos, but the very second she did, she sprinted towards him, dodging or incapacitating anything in her way.

_He_ didn't see _her_, which was probably the first time in any battle ever, because they always found each other right away - even on the Helicarrier siege.

Clint loosed another arrow, hitting some business-type guy who was cowering on the ground right in the heart, before suddenly whipping around and facing her, letting one fly that she just barely dodged (and it was sick that she felt relieved that he had found her, too).

He ignored those around him, and started speeding towards her, a grim look on his face and a blue tint in his eyes.

. . .

Clint's aim was perfectly as ever - son of a bitch - and the man was dead before he could take another breath. Then, out of basically nowhere, his body jerked around and he found himself staring right at Nat.

Aww, Nat, no.

His feet began thudding against the pavement and debris, carrying him closer and closer to her, his hands releasing hurtling arrows at her which - thank you, god - she averted easily.

Last time, _last time_ he had shown some restraint. Not so much on his part (like Nat had tried to convince him), but because Loki was preoccupied and didn't care to spend a great deal of effort on any one agent, even after his exploration of his mind had told the god how dangerous Nat was.

But this time Loki had a clear picture of how badass and skilled she was, and _this time_ he whispered to mind-him a soft, almost caressing, "We won't be taking her lightly this time. Tell me how it feels to have her blood on your hands."

And, yeah, Clint was screaming again because, even though Nat really did usually beat him when they sparred, he had won a few times and he was fucking terrified this would be one.

. . .

Unfortunately, he closed the distance between them all too quickly, and threw the first punch which she easily dodged because she was _supposed to_ and suddenly his other hand was gripping her wrist tight enough for him to not only feel it but _hear_ it crunch as her face twisted in pain for a brief moment.

"Clint," she breathed, as if that would have some kind of cosmic effect. Which it didn't and he jerked her arm sideways, probably dislocating her shoulder.

"Dammit," she hissed. Huh, so she _had_ thought maybe she could talk to him.

From there though, she broke out her full arsenal too and was throwing punches, aiming kicks, even a solid _bite_ to his _neck. _

He threw it all back, and, though she was sleeker and far more quick, he was still _bigger_ and when he did manage a hit, it did a lot more damage than hers did to him.

Not to mention he had the strength of a fucking _god_ on his side, keeping him upright even though his ribs were protesting and he still couldn't see out of his goddamn eye.

. . .

Her boot made contact with his temple, and for a moment the blue faded and his stance shifted and it _worked. _

A soft, confused "Nat?" left his mouth, and she was about to respond when suddenly he doubled-over, letting out a cry that wasn't quite like any of the various versions she'd heard from Clint. And when he straightened up his eyes had that unnatural blue to them and he was directing a fist towards her face.

Got her in the ear which hurt like a son of a bitch, but not as much as knowing her best friend was still suffering.

. . .

Things seemed shitty.

Well, okay, shitty was a polite term considering the fucked-up situation. Tony looked around, noting that the damage done to the buildings and street alone would take months to recover from properly. Debris was everywhere, intermingled with blood and bodies and the occasional lucky survivor running away for their life.

There had to be dozens of Loki's zombies (maybe fucking hundreds because he'd had plenty of time to do damage before he had any resistance from the first-responders that had made it out, all of whom were now dead, dying, or turned; and the added defense forces were unable to do much impact short of nuking the whole place which, thankfully, everyone was still unwilling to do).

The only positive thing was Thor was keeping his brother too occupied for Loki to use his staff's juju magic to create more minions.

The negative thing was Barton was one of them - _again_ \- and he and Widow were into it, neither of them really winning or losing.

He and Hulk were alternating between subduing the zombies - with as little permanent damage as possible (Hulk was doing really well, so Tony decided he'd have to give him some peanutbutter before he became Banner again because the Big Guy was just about obsessed with it.) In fact, the only issue they'd had with Hulk was when they first got there and the first thing he did was try to help Barton, not understanding that he was actually on the fritz right now and should be stopped.

Capsicle was busy rounding up the survivors and doing his best to get them somewhere safe.

This battle really sucked donkey dick.

He was used to unleashing the full force of his Iron-Man suit on the little beasties running around on the ground, and having to hold back was getting increasingly difficult because with all the disorder around, it wasn't hard to land a fatal hit by mistake.

Widow and Barton were still fighting like cats, and Hulk was smashing whatever the fuck it was he smashed, and everything was still hellish, when suddenly, the man he was currently trying to deter looked around in confusion and held up his hands in surrender.

"No, please, wait! I'm - I'm me again! I don't..." he stuttered, chest heaving and looking ready to cry. "I don't know what happened, but I'm _me_ and please don't kill me."

Tony whipped his head towards Thor and Loki, found Thor standing with a grim but triumphant expression over a kneeling Loki; the staff had skittered a few feet away, and was now broken clean in half.

A "hell yeah, team" went through his head, right before Loki lurched to his feet, plunging something long and pointy-looking into Thor's side.

. . .

Nat had just landed a solid kick to his ribs - he heard rather than felt two of them break for sure this time - and he was already straightening up to return the favor, when suddenly he blinked but he blinked of his own accord, and he jerked out a hand in front of him.

"Wait! Nat, wait." He rasped, coughing and spewing out a disconcerting amount of blood.

"Clint?" she didn't reach out or approach him in any way - good girl - until he managed to straighten up and she saw his eyes were all his own.

"Stay back," he warned her when she did take that step closer. "I don't know how long this will last."

He wrapped a hand around his midsection and finally - _finally_ \- wiped at his eye, thoroughly disgusted when half the blood just smeared worse, and the other half ripped out a few eyelashes.

"Dammit," he breathed, scrubbing this time because he wanted it _gone_ and he was really trying to prevent a nervous breakdown here.

They merely stood there for a few minutes, neither sure how to react because this could easily be a temporary relapse, when suddenly Nat cocked her head in a way that told him she was listening to someone on the other end.

She looked nothing but grave when she informed him,

"Loki used the sword to stab Thor."


	4. Chapter 4

When I re-edited this, I probably added as much as I took out. I didn't catch anything in my quick proofread, but fresh eyes will likely spot something I missed. Feel free to point that out. I don't bite when you criticize me.

**Disclaimer: Aw, Marvel, no**

* * *

Now that Loki's control had been broken on everyone, the fight basically stuttered to a halt, much like Clint's breathing. He was heaving in desperate pants, actually relishing in the sharp pangs that caused his ribs. Nat was still looking at him like he would break any second - and, really, he just might.

His fingers were still clawing at the blood that hadn't quite been ripped off his lashes yet, and he ignored the way they trembled against his skin. Ignored the way the coppery tang of blood was the only thing he could smell, intermingled with the occasional whiff of gunsmoke or cloudy debris. Ignored the way the terrified screams from the battle, the desperate cries of those now mourning the loss of a loved one replaced the whispers in his head, and the only safe thing to look at was Nat because everywhere else there was either smeared scarlet or an actual corpse.

"Clint?" she tried again, softer somehow than before, but when his eyes snapped away from her boots and up to her eyes, he had to wonder just how many times she'd uttered his name.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm good," he muttered, pinching his eye and scraping the last of the much off, finally.

"Clint..." And this time it was sad - so goddamn sad and filled with enough pity to make him hurl.

"I'm good," he insisted, much more harshly this time, roughly putting one foot in front of the other and stalking towards her.

Froze when his eyes flicked to the side and caught sight of that kid he'd shot down early on, what seemed like a lifetime ago.

He blinked, stared, blinked again, and suddenly he was doubled-over losing everything in his stomachs (which wasn't anything so he was just spitting up acidic bile instead).

A gentle hand soothed his back, but he flinched and batted it away. It was too constraining, too tactile, too _much_.

"It's going to be okay," a quiet voice told him, tinged with enough of a Russian accent that he knew just how worried she actually was.

He just furiously shook his head, at last done being physically sick and wiping his mouth with the back of his (filthy, bloody) hand.

"We should go check on Thor," he ground out, needing something - anything - to focus on because if he was subjected to thinking about the carnage of the day for one more second, he knew he'd lose it.

"I'm sure he's fine, you - " Nat started to protest, but he cut her off.

"We need to check on him."

She paused, scrutinizing him openly, then carefully reaching out the way you would to a caged animal. Her hand gingerly closed around his bicep, and, when that seemed safe enough, she wrapped both her arms around it and helped guide him to where the rest of their teammates would likely already be gathered.

. . .

It was probable Clint had been out of it longer than he'd thought, because when they found them, a whole horde of Asgardians were congregated in the middle of fucking (_decimated_) Toronto.

Thor was impatiently batting them off, unknowingly proclaiming Monty Python's "Tis but a scratch. Tis a mere flesh wound" bullshit. Loki was in the middle of an even larger group, all wearing enough armor to make Thor's look like child's play, and all carrying weapons befitting of Lord of the Rings.

Of course, because his life is basically hell, Loki spotted him as soon as they were within visual distance. Flashed a smile that was satisfyingly stained red with blood, and said something to him. Clint averted his eyes so he wouldn't lip-read, and they were thankfully close enough to see but too far to hear.

He didn't know how much more he could take at the moment.

The news crew from earlier were all dead except for one who had been turned at some point, her angst-ridden wails joining the chorus of weeping and shrieking that was ringing throughout as she clutched the body of the anchor himself.

"Fuck," he mumbled under his breath, swiping a (_diseased, rotten_) hand down his face and swallowing a shuddering breath.

"Hey, good to have you back," a voice sounded from behind him, and he jumped so hard it jostled everything enough to really fucking _hurt_.

"Whoa, easy, easy," a hand clasped his shoulder, and, yeah, really not helping. As if sensing his train of thoughts, it withdrew. "I didn't mean to startle you."

And the pure concern could only be one person, and he slowly dragged his eyes to Captain America's.

"It's fine, just caught me off guard is all." Clint brushed it off, fighting the urge to wrap his arms around his midsection protectively.

"You're injured," Rogers pointed out, and Clint looked down at himself, noting the various visible scrapes and bruises.

He was relieved that the substantial ones were on the inside.

"Yeah, but nothing major. I'll take care of it later."

The rest of the team greeted him, Stark in that typical arrogant, flamboyant manner that was surprisingly lined with legitimate worry; Banner still Hulked out and offering a crude, "Arrow-Man back. Good."

Thor's was a long-winded apology, an assurance that Loki would not escape (which is what the sons of bitches said last time), that he would personally investigate how Loki got out. The god was actually mostly fine; the wound was more of a graze to begin with, and the healers had patched him up too quickly for it to affect him severely.

He asked if there was anything - anything at all, by Odin's beard - that he could do to reconcile what had happened, but Clint truthfully said no.

Really, he just wanted to go home and curl up and forget the past few days had ever happened.

SHIELD would get yet another chance to have a field day with his psych evals, so maybe he didn't have much of anything to look forward to after all.

Nat shot him a worried look - probably the gazillionth one in five minutes - which he ignored (for the gazillionth time), then softly said,

"C'mon. Let's go home and get you cleaned up."

And, damn, did that sound nice.

. . .

Stark took him to the jet first, was gentle in his handling for the first time ever (he was always just shy of careless when it came to transporting Clint), then doubled back for Steve and Nat. Had to double back _again_ because Hulk had decided to let Banner back out to play, finally.

Clint had settled himself awkwardly in one of the chairs in the back - no way in hell was he going _near_ the pilot seat for, like, forever. Probably longer.

(Phil would have been able to convince him to jump back on the horse sooner.)

He hadn't bothered to move other than to continue to pick at the blood that he got out of his eye but was still glued to his brow. When Nat and Rogers came in, he realized he probably looked pretty pathetic slumped in the seat and absently rubbing his forehead.

Couldn't find it within himself to care much, but he did at least make somewhat of an effort to straighten up instead of slouching.

"How bad is it?" Nat asked softly - in Russian, bless her, to give them some privacy - when she sat down next to him.

He shrugged - which, ow - and murmured, "Could be worse." Then, in what was maybe a desperate attempt to make her - and himself - believe everything would be okay: "I've had worse."

Pulled away when she leaned in to look at the gash on his head, shifted so she couldn't patch up the slice in his arm.

The way he saw it, he kinda deserved at least a little injury for what he'd done.

. . .

Stark and Banner boarded soon after, Nat was still fussing and had bullied her way into gently mopping up his forehead with some antiseptic wipes, and Banner collapsed next to where Rogers was across from them, looking as exhausted as Clint felt.

Stark flicked his helmet up and looked at Clint incredulously.

"Why do we always end up here?" He sighed dramatically, earning a rueful chuckle from Clint that really hurt like a son of a bitch and ended in an even more painful coughing fit.

"Don't die on us now, Barton," Stark huffed, shutting the ramp behind him and telling Jarvis to autopilot the jet back to Avengers' Tower.

And for some stupid-ass reason that sparked his brain to go back to when Loki was going to kill him, and then decided making him live hell would be more suitable, so he closed his eyes and just tried to breathe.

Nat seemed to notice, and poked him in the bicep, so he flicked an eye open and peered blearily at her.

"Tired," he admitted quietly, which was the understatement of the fucking century.

She nodded, then placed a small butterfly bandage to help close up the wound on his forehead, already cautiously yanking his arm across his lap so she could take a look.

She was a persistent bastard.

. . .

The ride was pretty silent, other than soft words between he and Nat which varied between careful concern and blatant threats, the latter of which was done in Russian so he couldn't even point out how mean she was being to the rest in the cabin.

They did, at last, land on the pad on Avengers' Tower, and one by one spilled from the jet, Clint being sure to bring up the rear.

"It's...good to have you with us," Rogers repeated once he had emerged, as if the added emphasis would make Clint actually believe it (he didn't), then tiredly walked inside.

"He's right," Nat nudged his shoulder in that way she always did when she was still coddling him but trying to offer some sense of normality.

Clint just nodded dumbly, not believing her either.

"Any other hurts I need to look at?"

He shook his head then looked at her fully for the first time since the battle. "I need a shower and a nap right now."

She paused, narrowing her eyes and clearly making her own assessment of what exactly he needed. After a beat, however, she nodded, looking as though she thought he definitely needed more, but his points were allowed to be a priority.

"All right. Come get me the second you need something else."

He dipped his chin in acknowledgment, and the two slowly made their way inside.

Tony swooped in, babbling about how Clint had a floor all to himself, complete with kitchen, bedroom, and bathroom and, well, other rooms too but I figured those would be the ones you'd care most about -

Clint felt a little overwhelmed, so was ever grateful when Nat said thanks for him and steered him toward the elevator.

He was feeling pretty dazed right now, and the stares of the dream team wasn't helping right then.

"I'll just make sure you don't get lost," she informed him, stepping into the lift and asking Jarvis to take them to Clint's floor.

(He didn't jump when Jarvis responded. Really he didn't.)

But he couldn't help a small smile, because ever since he had wound up in a broom closet trying to find the gym in a SHIELD facility over five years ago, they had bantered about his magnificent ability to get lost.

He had to wonder if he would actually find himself this time.

. . .

Nat left him off in the bathroom, tossing some SHIELD issue sweats that she had apparently stored here after Manhattan when she was still futilely attempting to convince him to live at the Tower. Maybe if he had taken her up on the offer, they would have all moved in together all domestic-like and none of this would have happened.

He never had been able to make good decisions about himself.

He shrugged out of his tac suit (or more like peeled himself from it), and wasn't surprised that his body was a smattering of bruises of varying yellows and blues, dotted with an occasional scratch or two.

His ribs were especially frightening in their rainbow of color, and he found that three were broken - two on his left and one on his right - while the rest survived with merely motherfuckers of bruises.

Sighing - which, much like shrugging, hurt like a son of a bitch - he stepped into the now steaming spray of water and pretended the water could wash away the mental grime as well as it could the physical.

. . .

He stood in the shower, not really cleaning himself, just _standing,_ until the water grew cold and reminded him of the ice in his veins, and he had to all but leap out.

He toweled off quickly, slipping into the provided clothes and ignoring the old ones wadded up in the corner. His shower had made it a veritable sauna, and he had to wipe condensation from the mirror before he could see his reflection.

An act he should have aborted, because it only made him feel worse.

His skin was way the fuck too pale, which only made the bags under his eyes stand out at an even stronger contrast, only made the nasty gash on his forehead more evident and the deep cut high on his cheekbone the more clear.

Only brought out how dead his eyes looked, and how they were blue and if he tilted his head just right, they were _blue_.

He shook those thoughts away, and quickly flicked off the light and fled the bathroom. The bed looked more inviting than he knew what to do with, and his bone-weary body collapsed onto before he got properly there, leaving him to be on it from the waist up and have to drag his legs up one by one.

He didn't even bother getting under the covers, only held the knife - the one he'd sliced himself with, ironically - he'd grabbed from his earlier tac suit in a firm grip under his pillow, curled up, and let sleep come.

Nightmares came too.

. . .

A strangled cry escaped his mouth, and he scrambled onto his feet so fast he didn't even notice the pain the action brought. Didn't pay attention to the burning in his lungs from the heaving gasps he was trying and failing to get into his body. Took no notice of how sweat glistened in the pale moonlight and he was trembling so bad he probably wouldn't even be able to use the knife clutched desperately in his hand as any form of adequate defense.

It was a solid thirty seconds before he was able to process the bed - rumpled but still made - the fancy-ass room with lavish dressers and windows bigger than his car.

The Tower.

He was at the goddamned Tower and he _wasn't_ under Loki's control anymore.

Just to test that fact, he flexed his fingers over the hilt, took a step back, swiveled his head to the left and had to breathe out a sigh of relief that he even could do any of that.

His breathing was still way the fuck out of whack, and now his ribs were protesting that fact - the sharp pangs registering with each pant and helping him to focus on calming himself.

Didn't really have much of a chance to do so because suddenly there was a frantic pounding on his door and at least two voices shouting at him.

He was in the middle of scrabbling to get another weapon and barricading the door, when he recognized a third voice.

Nat.

He glanced down at himself, deciding he'd looked better but he'd also looked worse, and shuffled cautiously over the door, which was rattling from the force.

A sharply barked, "J, open the fucking door!" rang out just as he managed the strength to shout,

"Stop pounding on the goddamn thing and I will!"

He couldn't easily approach it without the healthy fear of getting plowed into.

The rattling stopped immediately, and for a few beats everything was silent to the point of being eerie.

"Clint?" A hesitant voice called, just as he opened the door.

And there they were, just about plastered to his door and all but spilling in as soon as it wasn't there to offer support.

"Shit, Barton, trying to give us all a heart attack?" Stark snapped, flicking on the lights as he stalked in.

"Please, come in. Make yourself at home," Clint remarked dryly, eyeing them warily as Stark, Banner, and Nat waltzed into the living room portion of his floor.

She came to his rescue, explaining things before his addled brain had to try to figure out how to form words to properly convey his confusion.

"Jarvis informed us that your heart rate and blood pressure picked up, and that your breathing was erratic. He concluded you were in distress - " Clint knew Nat well enough to know that she left some details out to save him from embarrassment " - and we came down to make sure you were all right."

"So, what, he's spying on me? And you wondered why I didn't want to come here in the first place," he added under his breath as he swiped a hand down his face.

"'Spying'? I would never call the _monitoring _J does 'spying'. He keeps an eye out on all the inhabitants in the Tower and lets me know if someone needs help. Or if _I _need help he lets Pep or Happy know," Stark explained indignantly, apparently offended that someone had insulted his way-too-sentient AI. "This time, he told me. Bruce was chilling with me over some Chinese while we discussed the effects of a - " Banner shot him a look that clearly told him to speed the story along. "Anyway, we were together and Natasha somehow knew and met us halfway. Do you two have some sort of weird twin telepathy thing? Mental implants? Oo, are you both robots connected over a secure server and that's how you guys are total badasses who - "

"No." Nat cut his insane theory off, taking a step towards Clint and asking him if he was all right with her eyes and not her words.

"As interesting as it would be, she's right. Neither of us are robots," Clint confirmed, still nervously clenching his hand over the knife.

"Hmm, pity. I'd find a way to turn you guys off then dissect you," the idiot billionaire commented wistfully.

Banner shot him a "you're-batshit" look, then directed his attention to Clint. "Are you feeling all right? You look - "

"Like shit?" Stark supplied helpfully, rolling on the balls of his feet, his eyes looking too bright and discreetly flickering to Clint when he thought it wouldn't be noticed.

Banner sighed in frustration, the way a parent would around a petulant child, "Well, not the most tactful way of putting it, but not inaccurate."

Clint started to shrug, but quickly put a stop to that when he remembered the pain that came with it. "Well maybe if I was allowed to sleep without having three psychos break down my door at - " he paused to look for a clock. "...Nine o'clock."

So not nearly as 'middle of the night' as he was hoping for.

Sometimes getting home in the afternoon and going to bed in the afternoon really sucked.

"We were only making sure you weren't giving yourself food poisoning," Nat responded, both a defense for herself and a mocking of him.

"Hey, that was one time!" He yelped. Because it was just the once. How was he supposed to know that chicken wasn't cooked all the way? (He'd never learned how to cook more than eggs, and had lived on disgusting food so thought nothing of the putrid taste and texture of the bird.)

"You gave yourself food poisoning?" Stark sound interested, and Banner interrupted what was surely going to be an asinine comment with,

"It can be much more serious than you'd think."

Clint was a little pissed that Nat had allowed the others to come with her, but he couldn't reasonably blame her either. If those two yahoos had wanted to tag along, there would have been little short of straight-up murder than even the Black Widow could do.

"I puked for three days straight. Coul - " he abruptly stuttered to a halt, hastily continuing with, "I wouldn't touch poultry for, what, a month?"

He glanced at Nat - who was looking all sympathetic and pitying because of his slip up which only served to further piss him off. Must have shown in his face because her expression hardened and she affirmed with a quiet,

"Probably longer."

A slight pause, and then - from Stark because who the fuck else - , "Are you planning on using that thing on us? Because I'm not going to lie, you're making me a bit uncomfortable."

Clint absently slid his gaze to the knife he was still fidgeting with, blinked once and glanced back up at the other three who were now all looking at him expectantly.

He swallowed, tightening his grip once more before nodding and slipping it into the pocket of his sweats.

"If you stab yourself in the thigh, don't come running to me," Stark huffed under his breath, making Clint roll his eyes and toss it on the coffee table to his right.

"You know," he started, stroking his goatee and ceasing his bouncing only to replace it with pacing. "With the collapse of SHIELD, the Tower is definitely the safest - "

Blood rushed to pound in Clint's ears and his knees felt weak, evident in the way he stumbled back a step. "Collapse? What the fuck do you mean 'collapse of SHIELD'?"

"Ah. Haven't told him yet," Stark murmured sheepishly.

"Nat?" He directed his attention solely on her, switched to Russian to keep as much of the confusion and betrayal he felt out of his voice as possible. "What does he mean by that? What happened to SHIELD? Fury? Hill? Are they - ?"

"Clint, stop. Too many questions. You're still reeling from what I know was a nightmare and - "

He cut off her soothings with a sharp, "Fuck that! Fuck my nightmares and what they were about, tell me what happened!"

He took a step closer, looming over her and not even bothering to try to hide his rage, his despair, because for him SHIELD was _it - _all he had.

"Whoa, there, I don't know what you just said -which, hello, _rude_ \- but maybe we should take a deep breath and have a civil conversation," Stark interjected, placing himself in the middle of them without actually touching either.

"I hate to agree with him, but he has a point," Banner chimed in, his tone soft, his expression sincere.

Clint closed his eyes and tried to imagine for just a second everything wasn't as screwed to hell as it actually was, tried really just to get his lungs to cooperate and breathe in when he asked them to and not of their own will like they had been.

"All right. Fine. Let's just - " he rubbed at his forehead - stubbornly refused to acknowledge Nat's recognition of that gesture " - I'll put on some coffee and you guys," he waved his hand loosely behind him, leaving them to interpret that however they felt was appropriate.

First Loki's unexpected return (and mindfuck).

Now SHIELD apparently was obliterated in his absence.

It's be nice if he could catch one fucking break. Or even breath.

. . .

When Clint padded out of the kitchen, coffee pot in one hand and as many mugs as he could carry in the other, he was decidedly less than happy to discover Rogers had joined their little party.

Yay.

He shot a glare at Nat - who smiled her sweetest smile at him, the asshole - then set everything down on the coffee table (surreptitiously grabbed his knife in its place). Plopped himself down on the chair furthest from everyone and subtly brought his leg up when Nat's foot stretched out to touch it.

She looked hurt at that.

He couldn't bring himself to care.

"So. SHIELD is apparently gone? Who's dead?" And maybe it should bother him that he was able to ask that with complete and utter lack of emotion, as if he didn't actually care but was just asking for a mission debrief.

The silence that followed informed that the others were at least a little bit weirded out by that.

"Remember Hydra?" Nat asked, as if he could forget. As if he could forget Coulson explaining it all in vivid detail, ever the storyteller to make it all the more impressive for when his beloved Captain America swooped in to save the day.

"Yep," came his reply a beat later, his lips popping the 'p' at the end with unnecessary force.

"Turns out they weren't as eradicated as we all thought. They had sleeper agents, moles, all the way to the top."

"Fuck," he breathed out. That one? That one he didn't really see coming. His stomach plummeted. "Anyone - Anyone we know?" (And he would have given anything not to have stuttered.)

"Sitwell," From Stark, who sounded as pissed as Clint had ever heard.

"Jasper?" He wheezed, just a little, because _son of a bitch_, Japser was _Hydra_? The man who, although sometimes too by the book and almost a little whiny, was still his second favorite handler and one of the few men he really, honestly, and truthfully respected? One of Coulson's best friends?

"Yeah," Nat confirmed quietly, and, shit, if he didn't feel like throwing up.

They all chimed in to provide details of just how Nat and Rogers had stopped it - apparently now his files were out there publicly for the world to see and that made him snap a little.

"And you didn't think of how many good agents that would compromise?" He was cut off when she defended,

"It was the only option to make sure we fully got rid of Hydra. Otherwise we could never be entirely sure whether or not there were still moles. My file is out there, too, Clint."

"It's more than just an invasion of privacy!" He shouted, jumping to his feet and pacing a beat before throwing himself back in the chair and leaning forward. "What, did you not think of all the ones undercover? Of all the ones who were wanted by _bad_ people from both before SHIELD and after? How could you not realize how exposed that would leave everyone?"

"I _did_, Clint! It wasn't a decision I made lightly! You weren't there! You - " She cut herself off, her eyes going wide as she realized what she said, as she realized what she _implied_ and he couldn't prevent the bitter laugh from bubbling out.

"Right. Sorry. How inconsiderate of me to not be around when SHIELD fucking collapsed from the inside out. How _rude _of me to have Loki use me for his goddamn puppet while you and Wonder Boy prevented the world as we know it from imploding! How fucking _tactless_ of me to be in some godforsaken cave, freezing my ass and fighting to gain even an ounce of myself back then have him laugh in my face when I couldn't! Fucking kill civilians because I - " He shuddered to a stop, suddenly remembering that it wasn't just him and Nat. It was the whole goddamned dream team, and just like that he felt drained and sank completely into the chair.

The silence following his outburst was suffocating, and he wanted nothing more than to hole up alone in his bedroom, but he knew that would be running away and he would be the subject of their conversations more than he already would be.

So he sighed and continued on, "Whatever. So Fury's death was faked, what about the rest? Hill? She alive? She _clean_?"

No one said anything for way the hell too long, and he was seriously considering just getting up and walking away, when Rogers at last answered with,

"She's alive and on our side."

"I offered her a job," Stark added, his brow furrowed and looking at Clint as though for the first time.

He was feeling pretty self conscious of the fact his shirt was damp with sweat and his hair was ruffled.

"Oh." Was the only thing he could think to say. "I guess that about covers everything then?" He didn't wait to hear anyone's response, already standing up and grabbing the coffee pot - not any mugs, just the pot - and taking a sip because fuck it, it was _his_ and he didn't care if his germs got everywhere.

"I think I'm going to go read or something. You're all welcome to stay here," though his tone said otherwise.

So did the slamming of his bedroom door.

Who the hell cared if he _was _running away?


	5. Chapter 5

This is the last chapter! I'm proud for actually finishing something for once. I hope this fulfilled what you were looking for, _Niom Lamboise_, thanks again for the support and patience3

I do take requests, so feel free to shoot one my way; I may not be comfortable writing it, but it doesn't hurt to ask so go for it. Also, go ahead and check out my other Clint-centric stories - I've been trying to add to the upsettingly tiny amount of them out there.

Thanks so much to each of you reading this^.^

* * *

Sleep wouldn't come.

He knew that without wasting the effort to try.

He stayed in his room for quite a while (he told himself he wasn't hiding, but, really, he was). Sitting on his bed and flicking a pocket knife Nat had given him open and shut wasn't doing anything to relieve the nerves thrumming through him. It was a few more restless snaps before he finally sighed and got to his feet.

He was pretty sure the dream team was still in his living room (_the _living room, because this wasn't his and he wasn't staying), and he had no desire to waltz passed them after his drama queen outburst and then childish storming away. It was a good thing the vents were surprisingly sturdy, if not a little snug, and led all the way down the range.

Maybe some archery would help.

(Maybe it wouldn't because he knew he'd see the targets as civilians.

He did.)

His fingers weren't to the point of bleeding, though that was more because he'd built up such an immunity with the thick layer of callouses coating the tips. That, and the way unique way he shot prevented it from snapping back and chafing his skin raw (it was apparently wrong, according to SHIELD's finest, but it worked well enough for the circus and well enough to earn him "World's Best Marksman" so fuck them).

The weight in his chest lifted just a little each time he let his arrow loose. Not the huge, sinking one in the pit of his stomach - the one of guilt - , but that other heavy one settled over his heart - the one that twisted his love for archery into something nauseating.

Each time he hit one of the numerous targets, he was able to remind himself he was hitting something paper, metal, plastic - not something _human_.

(Never mind it took a solid two hours to reach that point.)

It wasn't Nat who found him like he half-expected. It wasn't even Tony or Cap.

It was _Thor_, and didn't that catch him off-guard at all.

. . .

"Friend Archer," the god began, and Clint chose not to dwell on the way he choked a bit on the whole 'friend' part.

"Thor," he dipped his chin in acknowledgment, launching two arrows in the time it took for the brief exchange. Both hit dead-center, so there was that.

Draw, release, repeat.

"I - " The Asgardian paused again, and Clint flicked his eyes to him. The dude looked unsure, sheepish even. Enough that Clint felt bad for him, and actually offered something to fill the silence - something he basically never fucking did.

"When did you get back?"

"Not long ago. You are the first I have come to see," and he left his words hanging in a way that Clint knew he wanted to say something else. He wasn't sure he wanted to know; the god was pretty intimidating for more than just the obvious reasons. Because Thor may come across as obtuse to most - an unfortunate side effect of being thrust into the unfamiliar realm that was "Midguard" - but he was actually freakishly smart.

Draw, release, repeat. Another cycle, and then,

"There are no words that can absolve the sin of what my brother, Loki, did to you."

Clint shrugged, "He's adopted."

That at least got a small, rueful smile from Thor. "He is indeed."

Draw, release, repeat. And the arrow went sideways, was still in the bull's eye mostly but grazed the edge instead of landing dead-center. There had been something gnawing at Clint since the battle (and, okay, there had been a lot of things gnawing at him, but this one he actually felt like he should confess.)

"You know, I - " fuck, he couldn't do this. He swallowed, nocked another arrow because he couldn't bear to face Thor, and pushed through with, "Part of me was glad when you got stabbed."

The silence following was consuming, screaming Thor's hurt more than actual words ever could.

So now he could add "asshole" to the litany of _worthless, traitor, murderer_ going through his head.

"I've been in a pretty bad place for while," fucking understatement. "And when Nat told me you were stabbed, I just. I thought of Loki and what he'd done, and I kinda hated you, too."

And, for a brief moment there, he _had_. He'd never really been part of the Avengers, never stuck around to befriend Thor, even though the blonde had gotten his respect from the New Mexico complex all those years ago. But he didn't _know_ him, and anything Asgard meant Loki, and anything that could potentially hurt Loki made him happy. It was a sick outlet, and part of him wondered if maybe the shock of hearing the news felt so soothing compared to the crushing pain and guilt that his brain processed it as joy.

That would be the type of bullshit Coulson would come up with, and he dismissed it on principal because Coulson wasn't there anymore and the guy was wrong about that stuff anyway.

(He was pretty fucked up either way, so it didn't really matter.)

"Agent Barton..." Thor trailed off, gone was the "friend archer" and Clint's hands trembled.

"I think. I think I'm over it now," which was surprisingly true, though he hadn't felt that way until he actually spoke it aloud. Which was weird, because half the time he was trying to convince someone else, he was trying to convince himself and this time it _worked_.

"You see, I had a brother. He - well, I guess you can relate. He got jealous of me and tried to hurt me."

Thor made some weird guttural noise of understanding, and Clint cleared his throat. "I just...I just figured that I wouldn't want someone to hate me for what Barney did. Family may not end in blood, but it sure as hell doesn't have to start there either."

The god was quiet for several beats. "Your hatred for me is not misplaced. Loki and I were young boys together. Surely had I paid more attention to - "

"Don't. Don't do that to yourself," Clint cut him off, turning his gaze sharply towards him, not really sure why he felt a surge of protection when not too long ago he was relieved (that sounded better than happy) the man was dying. "You can't take on the responsibility for another man's actions, that just lets him off the hook scott-free. It was _Loki_ who did that, _Loki_ who killed all those people."

"Then does not the same apply to your own feelings of guilt?" Thor's voice was gentle, quieter than Clint had ever heard it and he still flinched so badly his arrow missed the entire target.

"I - That's different."

"Is it? Are you not sliding the blame from the man who committed them onto yourself instead? Does that not, as you said, absolve him of his wrongdoings?"

See? The guy was an intelligent bastard.

"That's not the same. You're claiming to have shaped him into who he was, which is a hell of a lot different than firing off arrows at innocent people, innocent _children_," he ground out through gritted teeth, finally feeling the heat from the workout and struggling to control his breathing.

"And magic influence does not act as a factor? Your being controlled against your will does not - ?"

"Fuck!" Clint shouted, whipping around to face Thor and tossing his bow to land with a clatter a few feet away. "Would you just stop this already?! You tried apologizing then, and I didn't need it. I don't need your comfort either, so just fuck off already!"

Thor merely blinked. "If that is what you wish, Friend Archer - " and there was no hesitancy, no choking, just a warm inflection to those words that made Clint feel glowy and like shit at the same time " - I implore you to forgive yourself as quickly as you did me."

Clint rubbed at his forehead - because why the hell not, he was already acting like a spazoid on drugs - and just nodded tiredly. Staggered the few steps to get his bow before shakily raising and beginning another round of his tireless practice. Relished in the burn of his muscles, more so the burn of his lungs as they strained against his ribs.

There was another beat of silence, and Clint thought Thor would take the hint and go away, but nope because:

"I have personally taken care of the circumstances of his imprisonment. I assure you he will not escape again."

Clint bit back the "that's what you said last time" that was all but bursting to escape, instead focusing on the rhythm of draw, release, repeat.

The god didn't buy his nonchalance for a second, dammit.

"Truly. We - I am linked to his prison." Thor commented, somehow lowering his head to look up at Clint through his lashes in a very submissive gesture even though he had an easy six inches on him.

"...'Linked'? I guess I don't follow," he didn't sound too interested, which was good, but Thor really _was_ smart, dammit, and caught on.

"I was branded, for lack of a better word for your understanding, with the only magic that can access Loki's prison," the god explained, angling his arm so Clint (who at least offered his gaze for a moment) could see the symbol on the inside of his wrist.

"Shit, when you say 'branded', do you mean literally? That looks burnt in."

"Not with fire, but yes, I suppose that is an accurate way of looking at it. It was a most unpleasant experience."

"So...You, like, touch your skin and can get to Loki?" Which sounded stupid now that he said it aloud, but what the hell did he know about Asgardian spells? (Actually he knew too much, and maybe that was the problem.)

"No. There is a simple chant involved, a password of sorts that only I know and only I can impart to be effective," Thor responded. "He will not escape again, of that I can be certain."

"Yeah. Yeah, okay," Clint nodded, trying to process everything and not really believing any of it. He kept rounding back to one thing.

That's what they had said last time.

. . .

Clint was more than a little surprised when, instead of leaving or even trying to keep up conversation, Thor joined him. He was throwing mjolnir at targets as opposed to aiming arrows, but soon they settled into companionable silence and a steady flow.

It eased some more of the tension Clint was feeling, but every now and then he'd be reminded that Thor was literally one step - one word - away from Loki and he'd be close to flat-out panic.

He hated feeling like a fucking yoyo.

"You know what, Thor? I've been at this a while. I think I'm going to take a break," Clint commented, lowering his bow fully for the first time in what felt like forever (aside from his earlier freak-out, which he'd decided to never admit to ever), his muscles sore and getting stiff already.

Maybe he'd tired himself out enough to get some sleep.

(Yeah, and maybe he was Miss Fucking United States.)

"It was good to fellowship together, Friend Archer. If you are amiable to the idea, I would enjoy making this a regular occurrence," Thor offered, a slight sheen to his brow and a genuinely pleased glint in his eye.

(Because that was the other thing about the guy; he wasn't only obscenely smart, he was _genuine_. When he was enthusiastic and happy, you had to be enthusiastic and happy. At least a little bit.)

Clint returned the smile he was given - not quite as sincere, but he at least tried, dammit - and nodded. "Sounds good to me."

With that, he left.

. . .

Clint showered again - knew he'd be showering extra for quite a while in a futile attempt to get ride of the dirty feeling (tried not to compare it to the many rape showers he'd taken). He had pulled on a different set of sweats, and considered the fact he needed some actual clothes.

Needed to _leave_ and _go home_ to get his actual clothes, even though the idea of living alone sounded as beautiful as it did terrifying.

He had just tugged the shirt over his head when a crisp voice rang out with,

"Agent Barton, sir has requested all Avengers to meet in the living room on the communal floor."

And, no, he absolutely did not flip his shit when he thought the disembodied voice was in his head.

Breathing getting back under control, Clint nodded absently and mumbled a careless, "Okay" before trudging up to said room.

. . .

At least he wasn't the last one there, he told himself. Banner hadn't emerged from whatever lab he was holed up in or whatever book he was immersed in.

Nat was sitting on the couch, talking in quiet voices with Steve and Thor (who dipped his head in acknowledgment, and perhaps more of an understanding was reached through that instance of eye contact than the whole conversation earlier). Tony was chattering away to Jarvis about something that made Clint's brain hurt.

She scooched over to make room for him, and he figured with his earlier behaviors it was only smart to prevent even further worry and take it.

Well, he perched on the back of the couch for better viewpoint, but that's what he always did and it even earned him a small smirk from Nat. He needed to try to get more of those before the night was done.

Or day, he mused, his eyes glancing out the nearest window and noting the brightly shining sun.

He really needed to sleep.

Banner finally ambled his way in about thirty seconds later, just when it looked like Cap was going to redirect his attention and talk with Clint (agh), and then Stark was right in front of them all, clapping his hands and rubbing them together in what looked like the stereotypical Disney villain gesture.

"So, in lieu of recent events - " Clint felt better that the billionaire's lingering gaze touched both Cap and Nat too, so he wasn't entirely singled out " - I've decided a couple of things. Well, Jarvis and Pepper may have helped, I should give her her 12% of credit." He added as an afterthought, because god forbid he ever get to the goddamn point. "Stark Industries and, more importantly, this Tower, is the safest place on Earth right now."

Pause, probably for fucking dramatic effect or whatever.

"And, to really up the ante, the Avengers are the most effective defense system Earth has. Sure, there's the FBI and Interpol and what the fuck ever else, but the Avengers are going to take care of anything in the world. We're more prepared for it - " Clint hardly considered one botched mission two years ago staving off an alien invasion preparation " - and we're not going to sit around twiddling our thumbs til the bureaucrats settle jurisdiction."

"And I know that you all can take care of yourself - " that one definitely singled him and Nat out " - But, even though this Tower is safe, we can always use a few extra security personnel. It might be nice for you guys to have a place to chill too. _And_ \- " he raised his voice because everyone seemed to think he was done. " - If the expected doomsday scenarios _do_ come up, I can't worry about having to round all of you up from opposite ends of the Earth to stop the threat. If we're all right here, we get the call, suit up, and head out. No missed texts - " Clint swallowed down the guilt " - or being three hours late or anything. Simple, right?"

He did have some good points, and it was almost hard to not be on board with how pleased Tony looked - not his usual smarmy arrogance, but sincerely _pleased_ over the idea of having a broken group of people joining him and Pepper.

Glancing at the others, he felt a little better to note they all had the same reaction. He kinda figured he'd be the oddball out who was a tad freaked to go from living alone to living with five other veritable strangers.

Cap - which he totally saw coming - was the first to respond.

"It's a good idea, actually. I'm not saying I'm sold on it, but Tony does have some points," he turned his imploring eyes to the rest of the team (puppy dog eyes would probably be a better term) and he watched as Banner's face softened.

"I don't know that being around people is really the best idea for me," the scientist commented softly, scrubbing a hand through his hair and offering a sheepish smile.

"What, 'cause you might turn into the evil, steroid-taking twin of the Jolly Green Giant?" Stark waved off, "I'm pretty sure Pepper's worse in the morning before her coffee."

"I will be sure to inform Ms. Potts of your feelings on her in the morning, sir," Jarvis' voice sounded over the intercom (and only Stark would program an AI to be able to sound smug).

"I lied, I'm pretty sure the Pepper that finds out I said _that_ would be worse than the Hulk," he shuddered visibly for effect, and Banner's smile turned more genuine.

"I suppose it wouldn't hurt to try. SHIELD has been keeping certain people off my back for the past couple years now - " probably that douche bag Ross, if Clint had anything to bet " - the extra protection might be smart til I can get back on my feet at least."

"Clint and I don't have anywhere to stay right now," Nat supplied which was a lie straight from the pit of hell and he always knew she was actually Satan's spawn. He shot a glare at her that told her as much, and she just arched a perfectly groomed eye brow at him.

"I do have an apartment you know. I haven't lived at SHIELD for years, actually," He grumbled, trying not to hunch his shoulders to make himself smaller under all the attention he was receiving for actually _speaking_.

"I hardly call that hole you live in an 'apartment'. Besides, I'm pretty sure the Tracksuit Mafia is going to off you one of these days," she added.

"Exactly! You can't expect me to leave Simone and the gang all by their lonesome," he defended, which was actually a good point.

"Whoa, whoa, hold up and share with the rest of the class," Stark interjected. "Tracksuit mafia? What the fuck is that supposed to be?"

"The asshole landlords who own Clint's building," Nat shrugged.

Stark stared blankly for a second before snorting, "Only you, Barton, would move into a building owned by druglords or whatever it is they do. Jarvis, make sure they don't own it as soon as possible.

A small tug on the corner of Nat's lips told him this was her plan all along and, like he said, _Satan's spawn_.

"Stark, that's really not - "

"Of course it is," the idiot cut him off, and he tried not to be too frustrated even though he really was.

"So good, Natasha and Barton are in, how about you two golden beauties?" He gestured to Thor and Cap.

"I never said I was in," Clint complained, seriously considering getting up and walking away because what they were doing right now? Making his choice for him and that was something he was feeling just a _little _sensitive about at the moment (and by a little he actually meant a lot).

He must have been absently rubbing that spot on his forehead, because suddenly Nat's hand was on his ankle and he would go to his grave saying he hadn't flinched.

Her quirked eyebrow had switched from the earlier amusement to concern, and he just looked back.

She understood though, bless her, probably faster than he had. He didn't know how she did it, but she could always understand his gestures better than his words.

Ignoring the fact the others were discussing the benefits of joining to convince Thor to stay (Cap had said yes, he gathered, but wasn't particularly paying attention).

"You can't - you can't make my decisions for me like that, Nat," he confessed quietly, letting just a hint of his actual feelings on the matter bleed through.

He eyes widened a fraction and she hasitly spilled out, "Clint, I didn't mean - "

"I know. I know you didn't," he sighed, running a hand over his face. "It's okay. You just gotta' let me figure this out."

"Yeah, of course," she nodded, still eyeing him like he was fragile enough to break at any second even though she tried to hide that.

"How about you just stay here for a week or so - ? Or shorter or longer," she added without taking a breath. "Just a little bit so you can feel it out and decide if it's something you'd maybe like to stick with. If you don't, go back to Tracksuit Mafia. But you never know, you might find you like it."

And that did make sense. A lot of sense, actually.

And suddenly they were all looking at him expectantly and, taking a deep breath through his nose he hoped no one else would notice, he dipped his chin.

"Yeah, yeah, okay."

Just like that, his life would bee living with a bunch of superheroes.

Eventually, maybe he'd even realize he was one of them.


End file.
